


He Won't Wait Up

by Catchclaw



Series: Mental Mimosa [96]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Dirty Talking Bucky Barnes, Dirty Talking Steve Rogers, Jealousy, Kissing, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Pre-Captain America: The First Avenger
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-28
Updated: 2018-07-28
Packaged: 2019-06-17 15:28:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,158
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15464457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catchclaw/pseuds/Catchclaw
Summary: Bucky's a glorious kisser, the greedy, pin-you-down-in-the-sheets kind.





	He Won't Wait Up

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: Plot What Plot. Prompt from this [generator](http://colormayfade.tumblr.com/generator).

Bucky's a glorious kisser, the greedy, pin-you-down-in-the-sheets kind. When they were younger and the world was less forgiving, it was kind of a problem: there were dozens of alleys they nearly got caught in, the seedy shadows behind neighborhood dives where he’d make Steve desperate for it, lap at his mouth and stroke him through his pants until Steve would bury his face against Bucky’s neck and beg Buck not to make him come, to wait, to take him home first, to let Steve lose it the way that he wanted, out in the open, messy and loud.

Sometimes, Steve got his way and others, Bucky wouldn’t slow down, would stop Steve’s mouth with more kisses and pry open his fly.

“You’re bad,” he’d whisper in Steve’s ear, after, rubbing his sticky hand over Steve’s stomach, giving him the worst of the mess. “Such a bad boy to want it so much you can't even wait till we're someplace private, Stevie. Shame on you. Coming all over yourself where anybody can see."

Steve’s arms would be around Bucky’s neck and words would be too hard to come by, then; everything beyond Bucky’s body, his grip, his smell, gone fuzzy and ephemeral, like a lampshade draped in a silk scarf. He’d be trembling, fine tremors of pleasure still dancing around in his skin, the scrape of the wall against his back the only thing keeping him from damn well floating away.

He remembers wondering, though, even then, if Bucky talked to all of his dates this way, all the pretty girls who bought him drinks when he smiled at them the right way, or held a door open, or asked them politely for directions in a city he’d lived in all his life. Sometimes, he’d do it in front of Steve, when they were walking home from the corner store, maybe, or when they’d dropped by the liquor store for their weekly bottle of cheap Kentucky rye; spot a skirt up ahead and nudge Steve’s shoulder, smirk, and change his regular everyday stroll to a fast amble and leave Steve in the dust.

If it worked, if the redhead or the blonde bought his act, Bucky wouldn’t come home until late. Steve wouldn’t wait up. But he’d stay awake.

He’d sit in bed with a book or his sketchpad and accomplish essentially nothing until he heard the rough scratch of Bucky’s key in the lock, the telltale creak of the floorboard just inside their front door.

“Stevie? You awake?” Buck would call softly, pretending he couldn’t see the damn light.

“Yeah,” Steve would say, irritation creeping up where worry had been.

Bucky would peek around the door then, a flash of a smile, sheepish. “Hey.”

“Hey.”

A feint of hesitation, a move they both knew was horseshit. “Can I come in?”

Steve would sigh and set his book or his pencils aside. Cross his arms and sit up a little in bed. “For a minute, maybe. Need to close my eyes soon.”

Bucky would step in and close the door and in the light, the pool of carbon yellow at the center of the narrow room, he’d be beautiful: collar open at his throat, his hair tousled out of its usual Brill-creamed lines, his throat a mottled crew of suck marks, the shine of unladylike bites. And his eyes--Christ, his eyes on nights like that: they made Steve think of the Chimera, of shifting sands of multi colors, of the morning sky after a storm.

“What was her name?” Steve would hear himself say, in a voice that he hated, one that spoke too loudly of love. Love and hurt. Love and hurt and a need, always, to know.

“Caroline.”

“Did you like her?”

Bucky would chuckle, reach up and start unbuttoning his shirt. “Once or twice, yeah.”

“Did she like you?”

A pop of cuffs, the slink of cotton to the floor. “Three or four times, I think. Kinda lost count when I was licking her clit.” His eyes on Steve, his fingers on his belt. “You know how it is when you really get somebody going. Don’t feel the need to keep score.”

Steve’s fists would find the sheets then because he’d feel the anger ebbing, the roiling tail of jealous thoughts fighting with a clawing sort of want and even knowing that Bucky was gonna give it to him, whatever it was that he asked, couldn’t stop the simmer that had been boiling all night from coming to a head.

He’d watch Buck shuck off his trousers, boots lost somewhere by the door. Watch him pet his own dick through his Y-fronts, his palm curling a little when he met Steve’s eye.

“Did you fuck her?”

A hiss of breath through Bucky’s teeth. “Watch your mouth. That’s somebody’s daughter you’re talking about.”

“Somebody’s daughter who just took your cock.”

“ _Language_ ,” Buck would say, a flare of heat on his cheeks. “You kiss your mother with that mouth?”

“Hell no,” Steve would say. “Only you.”

Bucky would smile and shove down his underwear, spring hard and heavy into the light. “Good,” he’d say, easing a knee on the bed, and then two. “That’s the way it oughta be.”

They’d go at it frantic on those nights, their hands tangled in the sheets, sliding over each other’s bodies, their skin fused together with something deeper than need, something more desperate that sweat.

“She smelled so good,” Bucky would pant, his hips snapping faster. “And she tasted even better.”

Steve would arch his back and claw at Bucky’s hair, put his fingers where the woman’s had been, erasing her touch with his own. “Yeah? Is that why you’re here fucking me?”

“Don’t fucking cuss at me, Stevie.”

“Why not?” Steve would spit through a grin. “You like it.”

A groan. “Because I’m trying to make you feel good and if you keep that shit up, I’m gonna lose it.”

It’d make Steve brave, that kind of admission, a temporary acknowledgement of Bucky’s own vulnerability when it came to them. To this.

“What did she taste like? When you were eating her out?"

Bucky would laugh, hot and breathless, and rub his chin, his cheeks against Steve’s mouth. “You tell me. Did my best to bring some of her with me.”

And the awful beauty of it was that Steve could, or always imagined he could; imagined he could smell her perfume on Bucky, too, could feel the phantom shape of her hands.

“Maybe one day,” Steve would say, “I could see it. What you look like when you’re fucking her. Or some other girl. Lay down beside her and watch your face while you give it to her like this. Watch your face when you make her come."

" _Jesus_." Bucky's hand would rake at the pillow, his nails framing Steve's head as Steve's tumbled to his hips, caught the curve of his ass. "Keep talking, baby. Don't stop."

**Author's Note:**

> ...in my defense, I was just following the prompt. And the timer, for once. More or less.


End file.
